


i don't care what you think as long as it's about me

by LuckyDiceKirby



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, M/M, finally i managed to get all my tbs bad shipping opinions into one convenient place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/pseuds/LuckyDiceKirby
Summary: After getting out of the AM, Damien visits Mark. Meanwhile, Joan makes a mistake.





	1. Side A

**Author's Note:**

> here.....we are.....
> 
> content warnings for: alcohol abuse, the general consent issues that come with mark/damien, manipulative behavior and just in general the most unhealthy relationships possible?

Damien looks like shit. Joanie left about an hour ago, abandoning Mark and all the scotch in the apartment to their own devices, so Mark’s had enough that he says so.

“Gee, thanks,” Damien drawls, but there’s something off about it. He’d been twitchy when he knocked on the door of Joanie’s apartment and he’s even twitcher now that he’s inside. He keeps putting his hands in his pockets and then taking them out again. 

He hasn’t been talking much, either, and that’s how Mark knows that it’s really true. His power is gone. At least for now.

Mark shouldn’t have let him in. But he’s lonely and bored and drunk and he doesn’t want to see Joanie or Sam or anyone else he could really hurt. And here Damien is, as if by magic, the perfect punching bag, and also the only thing Mark has worried about for the past two weeks. A skinny asshole who hasn’t been washing his hair enough, standing hunched over in his stupid leather jacket. Nothing to be afraid of.

Mark sits up from where he’s sprawled across the couch to pour himself another glass. Damien reaches for the bottle, like he’s going to take a swig of it.

“Hey, keep your hands off my fucking scotch,” Mark says. Damien freezes. And he pulls his hand back.

Goddammit. Mark tips his head back against the couch. The ceiling has nothing helpful to say. He squeezes his eyes shut. “What are you doing here?”

Silence. The sound of creaking leather. Mark’s patience is at an all time low. “Christ, just answer me,” he says, with force. “And tell the truth.”

Mark opens his eyes. Damien looks sour, his hands balled into fists. “I. I wanted to see you. Fuck, why does it work for you and not me? How is that fair?”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know, but it was the same thing with Chloe. After the head injury that, oh right, _you gave her_. You’re one to talk about fair,” Mark says. “Sit the fuck down, stop standing there like a deer in headlights.” And Damien does, sitting stiffly next to Mark on the couch, knuckles white where he’s gripping his knees. “You think any of this is _fair_? If things were fair, I wouldn’t have wasted five years of my life locked up by the AM, and I wouldn’t have spent the few months after _that_ getting dragged along with you on the road trip from hell.”

Damien gives him a terrible version of his stupid grin. “Hey, you have to admit, road tripping with me was a lot better than staying locked up at the AM.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “I don’t have to do anything,” he says. “So it’s true. That knock on the head really messed you up, huh?”

Goodbye stupid grin, hello ominous glower. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, tough shit, Damien, you came to the one person in the world who can make you do anything he wants right now.” Mark knocks back the rest of his drink and sets it down on the coffee table, harder than he meant to. 

Damien stands up, starts pacing. Mark thinks about telling him to sit down again. He closes his eyes instead. He can sense Damien’s mind, and it feels like a rabbit in a cage. 

“You’re the only one who has even a chance of understanding,” Damien says after a moment. “What it’s like. To--to have all that power and then to have _nothing_. That bitch Wadsworth won’t even try to help me.”

“Yeah. Why would she? Why would anyone ever want to help you, Damien?”

“It’s her job!”

Mark shakes his head. “God. You really haven’t changed at all, have you? You just got a lot more pathetic.” 

“You want to call _me_ pathetic? Come on, Mark, look at yourself. Drinking alone on a Saturday night? Where’s your sister? Where’s your _girlfriend_? Have they gotten tired of you and all your bullshit yet? Or, what, is Sam still too scared to leave the house? You two deserve each other. Maybe she wasn’t imaginary after all, but she sure is useless.”

By the time Mark even realizes he’s standing, he’s already backhanded Damien across the face. Mark hisses, shakes out his hand--it never looks like it _hurts_ in the movies--and when he looks up Damien is giving him that wounded puppy look. His face is red, it’ll probably bruise, and it fills Mark with such an awful rush of satisfaction that he hits him again, with his fist this time.

Damien stumbles back, hand pressed to his face, hair falling in his eyes.

“Fuck,” Mark says. His hand throbs. That hurt way more. There’s blood on his knuckles--one of them split, damn--and Damien’s lip is bleeding. “Don’t fucking talk about Sam. Don’t talk about her, don’t think about her, don’t go anywhere _near_ her, or I will make you regret it. Do you understand?”

“Okay,” Damien says, quiet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at the blood there.

Mark feels like a kettle that’s been set to boil and forgotten about. “Will you--say something, hit me back, will you fucking do _something_?” Mark demands. He hates this. He hates it when Damien gets like this, strange and silent and docile, when he makes Mark feel like a monster.

Damien looks up at him. He licks his lips. Mark opens his mouth to yell at him again and then Damien is on him, knocking him back across the couch and falling on top of him and kissing him clumsily, because of course, who the fuck else has Damien been kissing? 

Mark doesn’t hit him, or push him away, or knock him on his ass and storm out of the apartment; he doesn’t do any of the things that he should. Instead he grips Damien by the hips, hard, pulls him closer and kisses him back. He bites Damien’s split lip, and he feels the same terrible spike of satisfaction when Damien gasps.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, if Joanie comes back right now--if _Sam_ \--

He yanks Damien back by the hair and holds him there. They’re both breathing hard. There’s blood on Mark’s mouth now, too.

Mark really wants another drink. “Do you--is this me?”

Damien stares at him. “I don’t know,” he says. He swallows, which Mark knows because his eyes follow the movement of his throat as he does it. Mark is so, so fucked. “I feel--I don’t know.” He laughs. It sounds forced. “Maybe now you’ll finally get off your high fucking horse. You’re not better than me, Mark.”

Mark lets go of his hair. He puts his hands next to him on the couch, fingers spread out. He leans back and gets as far away from Damien as he can when the guy is literally straddling him. 

_Get up_ , he thinks. _Get off me. Get out _. He doesn’t say it. And Damien doesn’t do it, so apparently he doesn’t mean it, either. “At least I don’t pretend that--God, you know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you. You show up here, you start talking shit, you let me knock you around--what the fuck is wrong with you, Damien? What is your goddamn problem? Why couldn’t you just leave us all alone?”__

__“What else am I supposed to do?” Damien snaps. “I don’t know anyone. I don’t have anything. I don’t--no one cares about me one way or the other, and no matter what I say or do no one _listens_ \--”_ _

__“Welcome to the real world, asshole! It’s no one’s job to give a shit about you!” Mark digs his nails into the couch cushions. “And you’re not exactly good at giving people reasons to.”_ _

__“You do,” Damien says, almost accusingly. “You care. You could have left me outside and you didn’t--”_ _

__“I punched you in the fucking face, Damien--”_ _

__“At least you look at me!” Damien’s shaking, just a little, and Mark can’t help it. He can’t. He reaches up and touches Damien’s cheek, the same place where he slapped him. Damien makes a noise like Mark punched him in the stomach instead, and he ducks his head, presses his forehead against Mark’s shoulder. Mark wants to put his hand in Damien’s hair or on the back of his neck, and he digs his nails into his own palm instead._ _

__“Look.” Mark’s pulse is going so fast. He wishes the floor had to listen to him the way that Damien does, so he could ask it to open up and swallow him. “You’re just going to have to learn how to deal with it. Like everyone else in the world.”_ _

__“You don’t get it.”_ _

__“You don’t _want_ anyone to get it, Damien! You just want someone to tell you you’re so much better, so high and mighty and unknowable, or whatever the fuck. Well, you’re not. You’re just some loser, like the rest of us.”_ _

__“I want to hate you so fucking much,” Damien says into Mark’s collarbone._ _

__“Yeah? Great. It would finally get you out of my hair. I want you to hate me too.”_ _

__Damien raises his head. His eyes are very dark. “No, you don’t.”_ _

__He’s right._ _

__He picks up Mark’s hand, the one with the busted knuckles. “Next time you punch someone,” he says, “keep your thumb outside your fist. Don’t go for the mouth, teeth are a bitch.” He still has that calm hypnotic tone he gets, the way he sounded in the motel room months ago, the exact moment when Mark finally got scared._ _

__Mark closes his eyes. “Please shut up.”_ _

__Damien leans in close, and he does._ _


	2. Side B

Joan, if she is honest with herself, doesn’t like leaving Mark alone. But he’s an adult, and treating him like a child will only lead to a fight. _Another_ fight.

If Joan were her own patient, she would tell herself that it’s normal for relationships to be strained after so much upheaval. Such a long and distressing time apart. Mark’s reticence to talk about his time at the AM, his drinking, his occasional despair--these are all, if not necessarily healthy, at least normal. 

If Joan were any good at taking her own advice, she wouldn’t be doing this. But she isn’t, and so here she is: at a cozily lit coffee shop downtown, filled with hipsters and tired young professionals and Director Wadsworth, already sitting at a snug corner table, two drinks in front of her. 

“Joan,” she says, warmly, when Joan approaches her. It’s hard, even after everything, not to instinctively relax into it. Joan has never been any good at keeping her guard up around Wadsworth. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“You’re glad I bothered to show up at all, you mean.” Joan sits down across from Wadsworth, and Wadsworth pushes a drink towards her. 

Joan takes a sip, and pretends it’s not a stalling tactic. It’s a rosemary latte. Joan always used to order them, at the fancy places just like this that she and Ellie always frequented to discuss their plans. Ellie’s _vision_.

“You must admit, you’ve been a little hard to pin down these days,” Wadsworth says. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“I answer Agent Green’s. I’ve been cooperating with him and the AM in every way--”

Wadsworth waves a hand, cutting Joan off. “Yes, yes, it’s all been perfectly aboveboard after that little _incident_ with my nephew.”

Joan presses her lips together. Wadsworth sighs and shakes her head. As if she’s regretful. As if she didn't bring that up on purpose. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m not here to talk about the past.”

“No.” Joan curls her hands around her mug. “You said in your message that you wanted to talk about Mark.” The one thing guaranteed to draw Joan out. Wadsworth is either getting desperate or bored.

“More specifically, I want to talk about Robert.” Wadsworth taps her nails against the tabletop. Even that sound is familiar: she always used to do that whenever she was working on a particularly thorny problem. It was Joan’s cue to start trying to come up with a solution. To be clever and impress her. “I’m worried about him and Mark.”

Joan laughs. Wadsworth looks earnest, of course; she always does. “If you were so worried about what Damien’s going to do, you didn’t have to let him go. If you were so worried about _Mark_ , maybe you should have started--oh, I don’t know. Four years ago?”

Wadsworth sighs, like she has the audacity to be disappointed. “We’ve talked about this, Joan.”

“Yes.” Joan looks down into her mug and watches her knuckles turn white around it. “Yes, we’ve talked about why you thought it was okay to--I’m not doing this again, Ellie. Say what you have to say, and then I’m leaving.” 

“Robert talked about him while he was staying with us. Not a lot, and only ever when he didn’t mean to--but that’s much more telling, isn’t it? Do you know if he’s made contact with Mark?”

“No. Damien hasn’t contacted me, or Mark, or anyone.”

“You don’t sound like you approve.”

Joan breathes out harshly through her nose. “I don’t approve of much of what Damien does. If you’ll recall, he threatened the lives of several of my patients. I’m not without sympathy for his condition, but he is the only one responsible for his actions.”

Tap, tap, tap. “But you don’t think he should be alone.”

“I think that the AM took responsibility for him, and then abandoned him the moment he and his ability weren’t a convenient subject of study.”

Wadsworth leans back in her chair and smiles. “Ah, I see. So it’s back to blaming the AM for everything. That’s always where it leads with you, Joan, as if you weren’t happily part of our organization for years--”

“Years that were built on _lies_.” And of course Joan should have looked closer. She shouldn't have let the technology and the progress and Ellie dazzle her into complacency. She knows that now. She’s doing her best to make up for it. “Look. If Damien hasn’t made contact with Mark, then clearly there’s nothing to worry about. Have Agent Green keep an eye on him. It’s his job.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Wadsworth says. “And my concern is that if he makes contact with Mark, Robert’s ability _will_ become relevant again.”

“Agent Green said it was gone.”

“Agent Green shouldn’t be sharing confidential information with civilians.”

Joan shrugs. She looks Wadsworth in the eyes, and they understand each other: Agent Green will always tell Joan things he shouldn’t, because he wants her to forgive him; and so Wadsworth will only let him know things that she doesn’t mind Joan finding out. And she doesn’t reprimand Agent Green, because she wants Joan to forgive _her_. “So, what is it? Do you think Mark’s ability will somehow still be able to mirror Damien’s, even when Damien himself is powerless?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility. And since I doubt you’ll let us bring them both in for testing--”

“If you think I’ll ever let my brother set foot anywhere _near_ the AM ever again--”

“Yes, Joan, I know. No need to be overdramatic. I simply thought you might want to be aware of the possibility, and to take adequate precautions.”

This is pointless. Joan shouldn’t have come here. She knew that, of course, even as she agreed. Even as she told Mark she was going out to see old friends. “If Damien really is powerless, I can’t imagine he’d seek out Mark. Especially if he believes that Mark might still be able to control him.”

“I disagree,” Wadsworth says. “You know, I think he liked it. When Mark was able to control him. Of course, he hated it too. But I think the way he is now--adrift without his powers--he craves that kind of control. Especially from someone like Mark, who will do his very best to be kind. Not that his best is likely to be very good.”

Joan doesn’t bother to ask how Wadsworth seems to know every detail of what happened when Damien kidnapped Mark. Of course she does. “You think that’s funny, don’t you,” Joan says. “That Mark would try to be kind. Even to someone like Damien.”

“Well, obviously it is. Kindness is not the way to deal with someone like Robert. Do you know the first thing he said, when I told him he’d been dropped off at the AM? He said that there was no way Mark would ever do that to him. He’s very naive, our Robert. It’s no surprise, considering how he’s been able to cruise through life up until now.”

It’s a curious kind of cognitive dissonance, to hear the things that Wadsworth says now, and to know exactly how she would have reacted to them, even just a few years ago. Joan would have heard her say _kindness is not the way to deal with this_ , and she would have nodded along, knowing that Ellie had more experience than her, a deeper understanding of human nature. Ellie said things like that with a straight face all the time, with a cool clarity that Joan had only ever wanted to emulate. “It must drive you nuts,” Joan says. “That Damien had all that power, and he didn’t even use it properly. That he has no ambition at all, when you could have done so much with that same ability.”

“On the contrary,” Wadsworth says. “I count myself lucky to have never been given the crutch Robert was. Can you imagine, if I’d never had to learn to fend for myself?”

Frankly, Joan can’t. She shakes her head. “Fine. Your concerns are noted. I’ll keep in contact with Agent Green about Damien. I’ll be careful.”

That’s clearly not what Wadsworth wants to hear. She’s good at telegraphing her displeasure without having to actually say anything. It’s something about the set of her mouth, the way her brows draw just slightly together. Joan used to watch her so closely all the time, trying to pick up her cues. “Wadsworth, why are you really here? It’s not to psychoanalyze Damien. Or even Mark.”

Wadsworth smiles. That charmingly self-deprecating smile that was never quite _that_ self-deprecating. As if her own play at being humble was a joke they were both in on. “Of course I’m not,” she says. “I’m here because I missed you, Joan.” She leans forward, clasping her hands together. She always looks so sincere, and even now--even knowing that she’s the last person in the world Joan should ever trust--there’s a part of her that wants to. A part of her that misses the time when she could. “Not just working with you, although of course the rest of our staff’s accomplishments pale in comparison to the work you and I used to do. But we never talk anymore, Joan.”

“If you just wanted to talk,” Joan says evenly, “you could bring me in, like you did earlier this year. You know I’m always happy to help the AM in any way I can. Professionally.”

“Yes,” Wadsworth says, “professionally. Just like you and Agent Green were so _professional_ , hmm?” She reaches out and takes one of Joan’s hands from around her cup. Turns it over carefully, and starts tracing the lines of her palm. “I'm not interested in a professional relationship, Joan.”

Joan closes her eyes. She can feel her ears turning red, in that stupid way she’s never been able to control. She is a free woman. She can get up and leave. Ellie hasn’t told her anything useful, really--Joan will watch out for Damien, but she would have done that anyway. This whole meeting has been a waste of time. A distraction from all of Joan’s real problems. Ellie is just trying to get under her skin, and of course she’s succeeding, and now she _knows_ that she’s succeeding, which is somehow even worse. 

She can’t control Joan anymore. She doesn’t have any power over her. She shouldn’t.

Green used to tease Joan for what he called her _crush_ on Ellie. Joan always laughed it off. Ellie was just her role model. Of course Joan paid a lot of attention to her. Of course she tried to make her happy. Of course she wanted her to tell Joan she was doing a good job.

It was the kind of thing she might have talked out with Mark. But that was just about the time that Mark disappeared.

“Let go of me,” Joan says, opening her eyes. Her voice is very calm. Ellie looks as unruffled as ever.

“We both know you don’t really mean that, Joan. I know, things were complicated before--with Agent Green, and of course you were my subordinate--”

“You think anything is simpler now? Now that I know what kind of person you really are?” Joan knows better than to yell at Ellie. It never gets her anywhere. It’s only ever exactly what Ellie wants. But it’s just so _easy_.

Ellie tilts her head to the side and widens her eyes. She looks very sympathetic. “You’ve always known what kind of person I am, Joan. And you’ve always admired me, just as I’ve always admired you. You just weren’t ready. I see that now.” She runs a finger up Joan’s wrist, tracing the vein there all the way up to her elbow. “But we both see things more clearly now, don’t we?”

Joan can use this. That’s what Ellie is thinking too, off course--that’s the only reason she’s doing this. She wants Joan back at the AM, back by her side, under her thumb. 

And she wants Mark back, too. She wants to know how his ability interacts with Damien’s. But if Joan can keep an eye on her, she’ll have a much better chance of anticipating her next move, stopping whatever Ellie tries to do next.

Joan takes Ellie’s hand. “Maybe you’re right,” she says, through the tightness in her throat. It’s for Mark. And she doesn’t have to tell him--he doesn’t have to know--

The truth is, Joan misses Ellie too. Not this Ellie. The one that Joan used to know. The one who never existed. The most brilliant person Joan had ever met, who thought that Joan could be brilliant too. The mentor she always turned to for help. The woman who looked at Joan, all her hard work, all her ambitions and her dreams, and understood her. 

When Joan looks up, meets Ellie’s eyes, she knows that they understand each other now, too. Wadsworth smiles, showing all her teeth. “Wonderful. Same time next week?”


End file.
